


Devil's Backbone

by blessedthrice



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, American History, M/M, Multi, Period Fiction, The American West, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedthrice/pseuds/blessedthrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi Ackerman and his gang have ridden in the West for nearly five years, enacting vigilante justice on the criminally rich. As the trio makes plans for their next heist, Levi meets a warm and mysterious stranger, who promises to change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Backbone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Danchou Chan here. This is my first full-length chapter fic! This story centers on the American West, and includes a lot of 19th century history of the unsettled lands west of Missouri post the American Civil War. I'm going to try to update fairly often, and will include content warnings for each individual chapter.
> 
> Chapter One Contains:  
> Mild Violence  
> Bloodshed/Death  
> Mature Language  
> Nudity/Mild Sexual Content

Like a mirage in the distance, the dying man sees death approaching through wisps of black smoke. Death moves slow and predatory, like a hangman, his arms hanging loose at his sides, guns tucked in his belt. His boots kick up dust, his slender frame casts a long shadow on the ground. As death comes close, the dying man sees the coldness in his eyes--gray as a dark day, and twice as fierce. 

“There’ll be a reckoning for this,” he spits, blood bubbling up from the corners of his mouth and dribbling down the sides of his swollen neck. 

Death crouches low, revealing two rows of crooked, white teeth which glint in the flames that lick at their boots. Slowly, a pale white hand reaches high, tipping back a black hat as if to salute him. 

“Consider this yours, Rod Reiss.”

Death’s blow is quick, agile. The knife carves through muscle and sinew like through butter, blood spattering like rain over death’s white face. Gray eyes stare unblinking into the last breath of the dying man, now the dead man, hard and unfeeling as a card dealer’s. 

Slowly, death rises, knife held loose at his side, turning his back on the East. With each slow step, thick ropes of red blood drizzle along the low grass, a weeping trail to the wreckage behind, or to the pink horizon beyond, in the West. 

“We oughta get on, before it gets dark.”

The man Rod Reiss called ‘death’ nods curtly at this second, taller man, who approaches him like a wraith through the cloud of black smoke. He keeps his gray eyes fixed on his hands, wiping his blade on a handkerchief from his back pocket. 

When the smoke clears, a girl appears on horseback. 

“You shoulda shot ‘em dead between the eyes. Woulda saved ya the trouble,” she says, a thick braid of red hair visible where it has come loose from the collar of her jacket. The man called death spits hard on the ground, sauntering past towards a riderless black horse, which kicks anxiously at the dirt, waiting. 

“Tell that to Connie Springer,” he replies, stepping one foot into the stirrup and swinging the other leg over the top of the saddle. He yanks hard on the reins without waiting for a reply, and rides West, towards the hills. 

\--

The company of three rides hard into the dwindling light, never slowing in their hunt for the darkness. Levi’s handkerchief is pulled high over his nose and lips, hat tipped down to shield his eyes from the setting sun. As he charges into the valley between two precipices, a cloud of dust billows like a banner behind him. Where he leads, the others follow, the sounds of their horses’ hooves a lingering constant as he forges ahead, eyes fixed firmly on the Western sky. 

Within a half mile, the valley tapers into a narrow path between the rocks, which cast great purple shadows over the trees and the grass and the ravine that runs along the trail. 

As he nears the channel, Levi pulls up heavy on the reins, veering off the beaten path towards a clearing between a cluster of tall trees.

“We’ll sleep here,” he says, perhaps more harshly than he intends, as he drops down from his horse. The others, who have been following him a half day’s ride, slow to a walk behind him, their horses heaving great puffs of air through flared nostrils. 

“Seems cozy,” says Farlan, reaching up his arms to stretch them high above his head. Isabel yanks her handkerchief free from her mouth, eyes scathing. 

“Home sweet home,” she replies, a little sharp. Thirsty, probably, or hungry, or both. He’d promised that they’d stop to sleep back in Black Creek, but plans had changed when Rod Reiss’s party had departed from Pembina two days sooner than expected. They had been tracking Reiss’s stagecoach wagon for nearly a fortnight, and even Levi can admit he’s aching for a meal and a good night’s sleep. 

He yanks his own handkerchief from his lips, wiping a thin arm across a thick layer of dust that’s caked around his eyes. 

“Isabel, tie up the horses for the night. Farlan, come help me unload all this shit,” he commands, forcing a gentleness into his tone that feels unfamiliar. Isabel scoffs, kicking into her nag’s side and pulling ahead. 

They work for an hour in practiced tandem, unloading their horses and making camp. Their routine is so familiar at this point that they perform it in comfortable silence, their work marked only by the sounds of the horses’ padding hooves and leather straps being yanked loose by nimble fingers. 

“Wood’s wet from all the fucking rain,” Isabel says some time later, unloading a mound of twigs and branches onto the soft grass. Her hair has come loose from its braid, red ringlets cascading like wildfire over her shoulders and back. She seems more relaxed now, her bright green eyes heavy-lidded and glossed with sleep. Levi grunts, moving to the wood pile and rifling through for the dryest pieces. These he stacks criss-cross in a neat pile, leaving the damper pieces in a mound beside it.

“It won’t get very hot. Make sure you wear warm clothes,” he says, in the same bored, governing drawl that he always speaks in, although he doesn’t mean to. He’s never quite learned how to express concern, although he thinks that Farlan and Isabel figured that out long ago, as they both nod in unison. 

Winter had been hard, most especially on Isabel. It had always been difficult to find clothes in her size, her wiry, feminine frame often drowning in any of the pants and shirts they managed to steal. She and Levi shared a similar opinion of the functionality of dresses, and so he’d wrapped her in as many layers as he could, even sewing clumsy darts into some of her clothes so they’d fit closer to the skin. In spite of his best efforts, by January the cold had seeped into her bones and frozen the flesh on her toes and fingers. He’d spent two weeks massaging life back into the greening skin of her left hand; it was her trigger hand, after all, so vital to her survival that Levi had all but refused to cut away the two smaller fingers, as Farlan had suggested. 

He eyes her now as she wraps a shawl around her shoulders, comfortable in a pair of Levi’s old pants and one of Farlan’s smaller shirts. 

“We’ve still got those wool blankets from Wichita,” Farlan says, groaning as he lowers himself down on one of the wet logs. 

“Your ass ain’t gonna dry that tinder,” Levi chides, rolling his eyes when Farlan only grins, stretching out his long legs in front of him and tilting his chin up towards the inky sky. The sun has only just set, but the temperature has dropped dramatically, their breath fogging in the moonlight. Levi follows Farlan’s gaze to the stars, thousands in clusters, glimmering high above their heads. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he can’t help but think that they’re not too bad.

After a moment, his small hands go back to work, gathering the dry leaves and smaller twigs into a tight bundle, which he tucks into the heart of the pile. He kneels low to the ground, nearly cheek to cheek with the dirt as he pats around his pockets for a matchbook, cursing until he finds one. When the tinder is lit he sits back on his haunches, spurs spinning slowly as he rocks to gain his balance. Isabel sits down criss-cross on the ground next to Farlan, her expression dark as she twists the ends of her hair around two skinny fingers. 

“Isabel, get those peaches from the saddlebag,” Levi says, although he knows the reaction he’ll get.

“I ain’t your wife,” she snarls, red hair tumbling over her shoulder as she leers towards him, finger pointed accusingly. He snorts, kneeling to blow air on the dwindling flame. 

“Don’t be a pain in my ass,” he says, smirking when he hears her clamber up off the ground. As she stalks off in the direction of the horses, he can hear a slew of crude insults come streaming from between her lips, her boots stamping down a little harder than he thinks is necessary. Farlan chuckles low, blue eyes peeking up from under his hat to meet Levi’s. 

“She gonna stick you with that knife one of these days, just you wait. Ya’ll better sleep with an eye open.”

“I don’t sleep,” Levi replies dismissively, turning to rummage for the cast iron pot that had been tied up in his pack. He can imagine Farlan’s expression without looking at him, haughty and full of mischief. He doesn’t bother to remind Farlan not to be a pain in his ass anymore, having accepted long ago that there was nothing you could do to change the nature of a thing. 

“Here’s your damn peaches.”

Levi moves aside quickly as two jars drop hard on the ground in front of him, Isabel’s long legs stepping over him as she stalks back over to Farlan. He rolls his eyes, watching the way her legs fold beneath her like a cat as she plops back down. 

“Be fucking careful,” he scolds, gathering up the jars and setting them upright next to the pot. Farlan has leaned forward now, hat abandoned on the ground beside his throne. 

“What he means to say is thank you, Isabel. He just forgot what manners are.”

Levi looks up impatiently, brows furrowed low over scalding gray eyes. 

“I should’ve left you in that shithole where I found you,” he snaps, gesturing towards Farlan with the pot in his hand. 

“But you didn’t,” Farlan replies simply, and Levi can’t really argue. It’s true, after all, and there isn’t any point in denying it. He can still remember that day, clear as water-- Farlan’s dirty, drunken face, laughing mad as blood and spit dribbled down his chin. 

Levi has always had a bad habit of taking pity on ugly, hopeless things, and Farlan Church is no exception. 

Ignoring the remark, he busies himself with popping open the jars and emptying the peaches into the pot. He rummages in the saddlebag for sugar and pectin, adding them to the pot and stirring the mixture over the fire until it boils. When the jam is sticky and thick, he sets it aside, flicking out the dagger from his boot to cut into the bread they’d lifted from Reiss’s wagon that morning. 

“Smell’s good,” Farlan says, reaching out a hand for a piece of toasted bread, only to have Levi smack it hard with the back of his spoon. 

“Not ready yet,” he grunts, and Farlan mumbles something about abuse as Levi sets each piece of bread on a small tin plate, and then spoons the jam over the crust. 

They eat in silence, too tired to talk. They’ve got a long ride ahead the next morning, out near Fargo to drop off their latest spoils. There’s a family a day's ride from there that Levi knows could use some of Rod Reiss’s money--is entitled to it, even. He thinks of the Springers and their boy, little Connie, who’d been lynched just a month before by Rod Reiss and half the damn town. White Devils, he calls them, and spits on the ground whenever he hears their names. They’d gotten what was coming to them, that was damn sure. 

“You reading Mark again?” 

Levi looks up, eyes on Isabel as she leans over towards Farlan, inspecting the book in his lap with an eagerness that can only described as childlike. Farlan scoots out of her reach, scowling down his nose. 

“It’s Marx. And would you stop breathing all over the pages?”

“I just wanna see what’s so great about him, is all. He got a big cock or somethin’?”

It takes everything Levi has not to howl laughing at the blush that comes over Farlan’s face, so ruby red his ears are about to catch fire.

“What’s so great about him, Isabel, is that he believes in the rights of working class people,” Farlan snaps, a little high-pitched.

“Ain’t everybody work? Don’t that make them all working class?” Isabel asks, and although Levi is sure she’s merely being curious, this does nothing to lessen Farlan’s indignation.

“No, Isabel. Don’t be so simple. Some people--the--the-- _bourgeoisie_ \--own all the money, and the working class works hard to make the money and only keeps the smallest amount of it for themselves,” Farlan explains, and as he talks his wrist snaps up to gesticulate, drawing grins from both Isabel and Levi simultaneously. 

Still, Isabel persists, shaking her red locks over her shoulder and squinting her eyes as though she’s thinking hard.

“I think I might be working class, ya’ll,” she says finally, grinning so wide her dimples show.

“You most certainly are,” Farlan replies stiffly, and Levi relents, finally letting loose the low chuckle he’s been trying desperately to hold in. Farlan swivels his gaze onto him, nostrils slightly flared as Isabel all but howls on the grass, sprawled out on her back and holding her belly tight. 

“I’m going to bed,” he says tightly, and Levi whistles between his teeth as the man gathers up his book and his plate, stalking off towards his tent with his head held high. 

Isabel’s laughter dies down eventually, and when Levi looks back at her she’s staring up at the night sky, breath low and even.

“You think the money will make a difference?” she asks suddenly, and Levi watches her for a long moment, considering. The money certainly won’t bring Connie Springer back from the dead--he knows that. Still, he can’t help but think that having the means to buy him a proper headstone would offer them some kind of closure, a reprieve from their pain. 

“I think it’ll help them grieve,” he replies, voice soft. Isabel doesn’t look at him, eyes still fixed firmly on the clusters of bright stars, and the scythe-shaped moon.

“It’s justice, ain’t it, Levi?”

He smiles slightly, moving to gather their dirty dishes into a pile. 

“Eye for an eye, I say,” he answers, crouching again, spurs spinning in slow circles.

Isabel gets up suddenly, shaking the dust from her clothes. 

“I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

“Night, Isabel.”

He watches as she ambles towards their tents, holding the pot and plates in his arms. The night is quiet, the only sound the chirp of crickets and the howl of coyotes in the hills. 

At the stream, he strips off his clothes, shaking the dust loose from their folds and laying them neatly out on the bank. The clean dishes are spread out in the grass, propped upside down to let the water go out of them. He tests the surface with a toe, shivering as the icy pool breaks against his skin.

Undeterred, he wades out into the cold water, skin prickling as it reaches up to his waist. He cups handfuls of it in his palm, splashing it over his chest, neck, and face, scrubbing at the hair in his armpits and between his thighs with extra caution. When he is clean he lies down on his back, letting his thin legs float to the surface. The moonlight dances across the top of the water, illuminating his pale belly and bony knees. He remembers with sudden, jolting clarity the river outside of Jones Town, jogging after Kenny’s long strides with a bucket rattling in his fist. How old had he been then? Maybe six and a half, hardly as tall as one of Kenny’s wiry legs, hair hanging like a curtain in his face. Levi closes his eyes against the memory, which repaints itself on the back of his eyelids. Kenny, with his long, scowling face, always chewing and spitting red muck onto the ground. 

When Levi opens his eyes again, the moon has trailed further down the ravine, leaving his pale body in the darkness. He swims to the bank, wading out of the water, rivulets rushing down the backs of his legs. 

Back at camp, Levi replaces the clean dishes into his saddlebag, water from his hair dampening the collar of his shirt. He gathers one of the Wichita blankets into his arms, kicking a cloud of dust onto the fire as he heads towards bed. 

In the darkness, their camp is barely visible, and he follows the faint imprints of their tents to the last empty one, crawling inside on his hands and knees. The tent is small and worthless against the cold, but makes him feel safe anyhow. He stretches out his aching arms, kicking his boots off onto the end of the bedroll. 

The moment he lies down, he curls on his side, wrapping the blanket around himself like a jacket. He tucks his feet into the bottom, burying his toes into the warmth of the thick wool. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks again of his Uncle Kenny and his red chew. 

\--

When he wakes, it is from a dream of the noose. He is standing at one end of a very long path, and at the other end is the gallows, and a man all in black waiting to hang him until dead. There is no way to turn back, and nothing to the East or West--only the straight path ahead, into the arms of death.

In the daylight the dream seems surreal, its symbols both blurred and exaggerated. Still, anxiety gnaws at his gut, and he’s relieved when he clambers out of his tent to find Isabel and Farlan seated around the remains of the fire, the pot boiling again with the fresh smell of ground coffee. 

“God bless Arbuckle, am I right?” Farlan asks, gnawing on a piece of day old bread. 

Levi grunts in reply. Farlan, at least, seems to be in better spirits. The dark circles are gone from under his eyes and his blonde mop is combed into something Levi might even call presentable. He even smiles as he lifts the pot off the flames, pouring a cupful of coffee into one of the washed out peach jars. He holds it out for Levi to take and Levi gladly accepts, bringing the jar to his lips and savoring the hot, bitter liquid as it slips down his throat.

“Have any sweet dreams, gorgeous?”

“Oh, several. You weren’t in any of them.”

Isabel lets out a cackle and even Farlan smiles a little, nursing his own cup of coffee between two big, freckled hands. 

“We better get on soon. We can rest for a few nights in Fargo,” Levi says, eyes scanning the horizon. The sun is just rising over the hills, soft pink and orange light illuminating the dim blue sky. Isabel is braiding her hair over her shoulder, her red strands glinting like gold in the sunlight. Farlan rubs at some stubble on his chin, looking at his reflection in the surface of the tin plate. 

“If Lord Wald’s made any sudden moves, we can catch wind of him when we get to town,” Isabel replies, picking at her own plate of bread. Levi doesn’t break off a piece for himself--he’s not particularly hungry, stomach coiled in knots. 

“No doubt that’s true. Fucker’s all anyone can talk about these days,” snaps Farlan, lowering the plate and scowling at the hills. Levi knows that Farlan hates Wald especially, has heard Farlan’s stories about the Native family that attended Sunday Service at his father’s parish. 

Lord Wald’s plan to purchase reservation land from the governor, for the sole purpose of expanding his logging empire, sits well with none of them. For Farlan, though, the vendetta is personal. Farlan had grown up on the outskirts of a reservation, had known Native people all his life and loved them as his equals. He would sell his soul to put a bullet right between Wald’s eyes. These sorts of personal entanglements are necessary for Farlan, who is always in the crux of a moral conflict between God and justice. 

Isabel doesn’t need personal entanglements. Her righteous indignation and thirst for vengeance extends unbiased to the entire male gender, as far as Levi can tell, and he can’t say he particularly blames her. For her, it is a case of guilty until proven otherwise.

Levi himself has always seen the bigger picture, takes offense at the system as a whole. Men like Lord Wald are part of something larger in Levi’s eyes, something bloodsoaked and overwhelmingly American. In the whole wide world, there is nothing Levi hates more than hypocrisy, except maybe dishonor amongst thieves. Lord Wald is both a hypocrite and a thief with no honor--the kind that takes from the destitute for the sake of taking, lining his pockets so thick with slave money and Native blood that he can hardly fit his fat hands in. 

Levi will be a dead man before he lets Lord Wald near that reservation land. 

He spits on the ground, placing his hat on his head as his eyes scan the clearing. 

“Let’s pack up and move on.”

Isabel and Farlan mumble their agreements, and the three of them set to work dismantling their camp and reloading their horses. By the time they’re ready to head North, the sun is high above their heads. 

“You two done messing around?” he calls over his shoulder, expression unamused as Isabel and Farlan immediately stop bickering over the last crust of bread. They mount their horses separately, and Levi waits with an impatient expression as they ride up on either side of him.

“Wald’s gonna regret the day he came west of the Ohio River,” he states boldly, tipping his hat down low over his eyes. He kicks his heels into his horse’s sides, releasing a low cry as he charges North, Isabel and Farlan following close behind. 

\--

It’s dusk by the time they gallop into Fargo, muscles aching and faces slick with sweat. They trot through the dusty streets with their heads down, careful not to draw too much attention to themselves. There are wanted signs hanging in shop windows, and Levi doesn’t look too close to see if any of them match his likeness. 

When they ride into the stables at No Neck Tony’s, Jean Kirstein is leaning casually against the open barn door, picking dirt from under his fingernails. He tips back his hat as the trio roars past, pushing himself off the wall with his leg and sauntering over with a bored expression.

Levi’s stayed at Tony’s plenty of times, and he likes Jean, the loud-mouthed, french-speaking stable boy, come south from Quebec to start a new life in the West. He’d been caught red handed trying to lift a nag from Tony’s barn, and instead of turning the little shit over to the sheriff, Tony had offered the kid a job. 

“Thought you’d be dead by now,” Jean drawls as he approaches. Levi jumps down from his horse, followed by Farlan who has his arms folded across his chest defensively. Farlan doesn’t share the same affection for the _little sociopath_ as Levi does, and Levi supposes he can’t blame him. Ugly, hopeless things and all that.

“Tie ‘em up, feed ‘em, water ‘em. Try not to get kicked in the ass this time,” Levi says, flicking a gold piece in Jean’s direction. The boy catches it easily, squinting at it with one eye closed before biting into it with his back teeth. Satisfied, he slips it into his pocket, ignoring the reins Levi holds out to him in favor of leaning his elbows on the side of Levi’s horse.

“Good to see you again, _cherie_ ,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He peers up from beneath the brim of his hat at Isabel, who snorts.

“Wish I could say the same,” she quips without looking at him. Jean grins, one golden tooth glinting mischievously in the sunlight. 

“Perhaps you need a little convincing,” he suggests, and Isabel jumps down from her saddle, careful to kick up as much mud as possible in his direction as she stalks to Levi’s side. 

“I’m hungry,” she deadpans, folding her arms across her chest in perfect imitation of Farlan. Levi chuckles, yanking down his pack and tossing it over his shoulder. 

“Suits you right, kid,” he says, waving over his shoulder as Jean spits out mouthfuls of dirt and horseshit onto the ground. 

Inside, the saloon is low lit and quiet, save for a couple of patrons who are minding their business, eating or reading the paper. In the corner at a circular table, a man in a bowler hat lays out a line of playing cards, silver streams of smoke drifting up towards the ceiling from a long corncob pipe. 

Tony is behind the bar, wiping down a lager glass, beard hiding his infamously non-existent neck. After a low exchange, in which Levi only curses once and hands over more money than he thinks is justifiable, he leads Isabel and Farlan up the stairs, gray eyes darting back and forth, watching every face in the saloon for any sign of trouble. 

He’s rented three rooms with single beds, an unnecessary expense but one that he thinks they’ll all appreciate after a night’s sleep. It’s rare they get to have any privacy these days, and with Rod Reiss’s fortune in their pockets, it’s nothing they can’t afford. 

They go their separate ways at the top of the stairs, promising to see each other for supper after they’ve washed up. Levi is at the wash basin the moment his door closes behind him, hoisting a bucket of water off the floor and emptying it into the sink. He strips, dunking the towel from the edge of the basin in the water and scrubbing at his skin until he’s pink. 

The conversation at dinner is relaxed, quiet. They are all three listening for any word of Lord Wald, hardly paying any mind to the stew inside their bowls. By the time the fire has begun to dwindle, not a soul has mentioned Lord Wald or his purchase, and Farlan’s eyes have become heavy with whiskey. Levi urges him to bed, with help from Isabel, and follows after only when he’s sure that no one in the saloon is watching them, or pretending not to watch them. 

The next day passes much in the same vein, marked only by a rather passionate game of Brag between Isabel and Farlan that sends Isabel storming outside for some fresh air. She returns sometime before dinner, claiming she’s come down with a bellyache and charging up the stairs to her room. Farlan follows after, keen on settling things between them. Levi sits alone in the dining room, minding his own damn business. He never tries to get in between Isabel and Farlan’s spats. They’re grown adults, in his eyes, and perfectly capable of settling a score on their own.

Levi settles in instead, nursing a cold beer as he skims the day’s paper. One headline in particular catches his eye, a large bold-face type announcing the murder of “Rod Reiss and four of his company men.” Levi frowns, reading the description closely. The stagecoach had been found by rangers heading into Fargo, who had telegraphed the news from a nearby military fort. There was no clue as to who’d done it, although it was suspected, due to large quantities of money gone missing, that the company had run into trouble with outlaws. Listed, then, were several wanted stagecoach robbery gangs, and a reward posted by the sheriff’s office. Levi’s gang is not amongst them, much to his relief, and he sets the paper aside, letting loose the breath he’d been holding.

It’s never his life he worries about, he thinks, and glances up towards the rafters. 

“Mind if I share this table?”

The man who spoke is casting a shadow so long it touches the wall on the other side. The sunlight against his back makes him difficult to make out in the dim bar, and Levi squints to get a better look. 

He’s no older than thirty, tall and broad shouldered, in a dark blue shirt that is tucked neatly into tan trousers. His braces are shrugged off his arms and hang low from his hips, drawing attention to a narrow waist and thick thighs. His face is angular and handsome, marked by an aquiline nose and very dark brows. His hair is gold, combed neatly to the side, and his hands are large, resting open on his hips. 

The overall image is one of power, and Levi finds himself immediately uncomfortable.

“Free country,” he replies with a practiced indifference, glancing back at the paper on the table as though he is still reading it. 

“Is it?”

Levi glances up again, eyebrows knit in exasperation. He doesn’t much like being approached by strangers, and he certainly doesn’t like making nice with them. He’s got too much at risk, too much to protect. 

“According to the constitution,” he replies coldly, looking back down at the table.

“A piece of paper.”

“It’s the law, ain’t it?”

“I think the law is fairly subjective. As effective as its constituents want it to be.”

“I ain’t no philosopher.”

“A constituent, though, or aren’t you?”

Levi scoffs, looking up at the man irritably.

“Are you gonna sit down, or what?”

The table shifts as the man sinks into the empty chair across from him, jolted by his unbelievable mass. Levi curses as his beer slops onto the table, scooting back his chair to keep the spill from running into his lap. 

“Christ.”

“Terribly sorry. I’d be happy to buy you a new one.”

Levi locks eyes with the man, trying and failing to school the hostility brewing there. It’s in his best interest--in Isabel and Farlan’s best interest, that he not draw any attention to them now. He reminds himself of this as he sinks back into his chair, Tony ambling over to mop up the spill with a towel.

“Another beer for the gentleman, on me,” says the stranger, and Levi almost rolls his eyes but manages to stare blankly ahead instead, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Tony doesn’t rush to bring him a new beer--on the contrary he takes his time, cutting the foam with deliberate slowness. 

Levi mumbles a polite ‘thank you’ when the beer is slammed down in front of him, not bothering to point out that Tony has made a new mess in the exact damn spot he’d just cleaned up. The man’s presence at the table makes him anxious, although he isn’t sure why.

“Rod Reiss. I heard he had a hanging in his town a while back.”

The man says this conversationally, eyes glancing across the back of the newspaper, which Levi has held up in front of his face. 

“Murder,” he corrects without thinking, and then scolds himself internally, most especially when he notices that he’s caught the man’s interest. Cool blue eyes examine him across the table, seeming to pick beneath his skin. 

He lowers the paper back down to the table, picking up his beer instead. 

“Murder? That black boy?” the man replies, and then, after a pause, “I’d have to agree with you, there.”

Levi tries to hide his surprise, taking a long pull off the edge of his glass. The man is fumbling now, digging in the pockets of his well-made shirt for a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches.

“Do you mind?”

“Free country.”

“We agreed that was subjective.”

Levi is leaning forward now, elbows on the table, eyes fixed firmly on the man across from him. It’s not like him to talk to strangers, and yet, he can’t seem to stop himself, the idea of excusing himself upstairs failing to cross his mind even once.

“May I?” he asks, reaching out a hand towards the pack. 

“Certainly. In our subjective free country, you may do whatever you like.”

“Tch.”

He leans back now, eyebrows furrowed even tighter. One hand comes up to his mouth, beginning to gnaw absently on the loose skin around his thumbnail. After a moment, the man holds out a lit match, touching it to the end of Levi’s cigarette, and then his own. 

“My name is Erwin Smith. I’m a doctor,” the man says cordially, taking a long, elegant drag, releasing a stream of silver smoke into the air.

“Congratulations,” Levi deadpans, startled when the man begins to laugh--a deep, throaty sound from within. Was there anything about this man that wasn’t huge and obnoxious? Levi could speculate about one part of him, although the amusement at his own immaturity fizzles as quickly as it comes. 

“I’m passing through on my way to Denver. And yourself?”

“Levi.”

The man smiles at this, although Levi isn’t sure what for. In fact, the smile serves to irritate him even more, and he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back uncomfortably in his chair, the lit cigarette smoking between his fingers. Tony is eyeing them from the bar, eavesdropping no doubt. 

“That’s a very biblical name,” says Erwin Smith, “And where are your Levites?”

“Left ‘em back in Canaan.”

“Inheriting the Lord, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

They fall into a silence then, and it occurs to Levi for the first time that he could excuse himself from the conversation, although he realizes he doesn’t really want to. The thought is even more obnoxious than the man, and he scowls, taking a long puff off his cigarette and exhaling slowly. 

“So did he get what he deserved?” Erwin asks after a pause, blue eyes glinting in such a way that Levi wonders if the man isn’t making fun of him--although the idea, of course, is ludicrous. They’ve only just met, only just exchanged names. 

“What are you talking about.”

“Rod Reiss. Do you think he got what he deserved?”

It’s Levi’s turn to laugh now, a low, humourless sound from deep in his belly. Rich white man hangs a black boy in his town for falling in love with a white girl. Did Rod Reiss get what he deserved?

“Absolutely.”

Erwin Smith seems interested by this answer, leaning back in his chair to look Levi in the eye. Their height difference must be massive, Levi thinks. He’s never been particularly tall, certainly much shorter than a lot of men, but Erwin is unusually tall, so long that the toes of his boots nearly touch Levi’s beneath the table. 

“You think it’s justice, then? A murder for a murder?” he asks, his tone genuinely curious. Levi frowns.

“I think some people get what’s comin’ to ‘em.”

“It’s against the law, though, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes you can’t trust the damn law.”

“Then what can you trust?”

Levi exhales, realizing he’s been holding in his breath, heart pounding beneath his ribs like hands against a drum. He thinks again of Farlan and Isabel, upstairs in their separate rooms. 

“Yourself, and the company you keep,” he says simply. Erwin seems satisfied by this. Levi watches his full lips part, and then close around the end of his cigarette. He inhales deeply, exhaling through his nostrils. Levi tries his hardest not to be mesmerized by this small action, looking indignantly down at the table again. 

“So justice is subjective, too, you think? Then isn’t the law a waste of time?” 

Levi’s frown deepens.

“The law protects the lawmaker, is what I think. The rest of us gotta take it into our own hands.”

“And what do you call that kind of justice?” the blonde man asks, voice softer now. Levi’s eyes move back up against his will, caught in a blue gaze.

“Frontier justice.”

There is silence then, and Levi thinks that Erwin Smith seems fairly relaxed, his broad shoulders eased and his posture loose. Levi’s own body is rigid, so tense he can feel the muscles in his calves shaking. He feels inexplicably frustrated, displeased with the path of their conversation although he can’t quite really pinpoint why. 

He picks up his beer, bringing it to his lips and draining it in a few gulps. When he sets the empty glass back down on the table, his eyes narrow in on the remnants of the foam, which slides down the inside like rain on a window. 

“Do you play cards?” Erwin Smith asks, gesturing to the abandoned game of Brag on the table. Levi shrugs a shoulder, petulant. Truthfully, he’s a very adept card player, but he doesn’t want to play cards with the stranger in the blue shirt. Before he can say so, Erwin has reached across the table, collecting the deck in his large hand. He shuffles them, Levi’s eyes fixed on the skilled movement of his thick fingers. He deals out one card face down to each of them, and one face up.

“You know Stud?”

Levi grunts, tempting a smile from the doctor. He glances down at his face up card--a Queen of Diamonds. Erwin’s Two of Hearts gleams in the dim bar light, and Levi smirks, satisfied as the blonde man rifles in his pocket, throwing two bits in the center of the table. 

Levi hesitates before reaching into his own pocket, two Spanish reals clattering onto the pile. 

“You from around these parts?” Erwin asks, his tone conversational. Levi’s eyes are fixed on the cards being dealt, one to himself and one to Erwin. A Queen of Hearts. Levi leans his cheek on his fist, tossing two more bits into the pile. Erwin matches, licking his finger to deal again.

“I grew up ‘round Colorado,” Levi replies honestly, although he isn’t sure why. He’s a good liar, unusually quick on his feet about it. There’s something comforting about Erwin Smith, though--something soft that makes him want to talk about himself.

“Really? I’m from North Carolina.”

“You’ve got an accent,” Levi notes eagerly, devouring this bit of information as though it belongs to him. Erwin’s soft smile returns, gesturing to their cards. A Nine of Spades, and a Two of Clubs. Ace high. He hadn’t noticed the ace before--too busy feeling cocky about his pair of Queens. 

Levi considers a moment before he reaches into his pocket, tossing a silver dollar onto the pot. Erwin raises his thick brows, blue eyes glinting playfully as he matches the bet. Levi gets the feeling again that Erwin is teasing him, and scowls.

“Everyone has an accent,” the blonde man says, and Levi nearly tells him not be a pain in the ass, but refrains, waiting instead for the final deal out. Erwin obliges, laying one card and then the next face up on the table. An Ace of Spades, and a Four of Diamonds. The grin that spreads across Levi’s face is self-satisfied, and he tosses another silver dollar onto the pot, taking a long drag off the cigarette he’d forgotten was in his hand. Erwin, meanwhile, stubs his out in the ashtray, matching the bet without hesitation. Levi’s brow furrows. The man is playing with nothing, his odds slim compared to Levi’s Ace high Queens.

“You’re playing awful risky,” Levi notes, eliciting another smile from the man that reveals a dimple on the left side of his mouth. 

“So are you,” Erwin replies calmly, and when he flips his face down card, it reveals the Ace of Hearts. Levi stares, stunned, at his Three of Clubs, cigarette burning down so low that it stings his fingers. He jumps, tossing the thing in the ashtray and running a frustrated hand through his thick, black hair.

The low laugh from Erwin Smith is enough to make him want to flip the damn table, but he doesn’t move, frozen in place, eyes fixed on the cards. The son of a bitch.

“You cheated,” Levi accuses, although he has no evidence to support this claim. Erwin’s brow is raised now, skepticism written all over his handsome face. 

“You’re a sore loser,” he says, amused. 

Levi doesn’t argue, there isn’t any point. He is a sore loser, and it shows. Annoyed, he shoves the coins across the table towards the man, gathering the cards back towards him.

“Let’s play again.”

“Not tonight,” Erwin says gently, as though he’s speaking to an unruly child. “I’m very tired. Perhaps we could tomorrow?”

The invitation is kind, gentle, even. The effect on him is immediate, sending soft sensations through his belly. Levi looks up at the stranger, gray eyes on blue, and offers a curt nod. 

As Erwin Smith stands from the table, Levi is astounded again by his stature--the sheer strength of his frame. He stares blatantly, unable to look away. If Erwin Smith notices, he’s too polite to say anything.

“Good to meet you, Levi,” he bids, neatly stacking the coins and slipping them into his purse. Levi grunts in response, although he is still staring, eyes boring holes into the man’s backside even as he walks away, great legs thundering up the stairs towards the lodges.

That night, Levi lies awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He thinks, as he has for hours, about the stranger named Erwin Smith, and his cheating card game. He knows deep down that Erwin won honestly, but calling him a cheater eases a good deal of his annoyance that he lost 2.50 to a man who can’t even put his braces on in public. A slob.

He thinks about those loose straps, the way they framed powerful hips and thighs, and then he thinks of Erwin’s thighs only. Mindless, his hand wanders between his legs, and when he comes he thinks only of blue eyes and full lips, much to his disdain.

\--

When he wakes, it is from the dream of the gallows. This time he is standing on them, hands tied behind his back, or simply not there at all. The hangman, dressed in black clothes, ties the knot around his throat. As he steps up to the falling door, the hangman asks, as gentle as if he were a lover _and what do you call that kind of justice?_ The voice is familiar, and as his feet fall, Levi notices loose braces, and a glimmer of blue eyes.

At the washbin he splashes cold water on his face, his stomach turning with anxiety. It’s the same feeling he’d had the morning they’d ridden into town--the inexplicable feeling that something was about to happen over which he had no control. The idea makes his heart pound. 

By the time he’s roused Isabel and Farlan, it’s nearly breakfast, and even with him rushing them to head out, it takes until lunch to load up their saddles. 

“Leaving so soon?” comes Jean Kirstein’s loud voice as the frenchman saunters over, a length of rope over his thin shoulder. Levi nearly replies, until he notices that Jean’s gaze is aimed above him, to Isabel, who is sitting on her horse, pale hands holding the reins. Her hair is loose and free, falling around her face and shoulders like a lion’s mane. Even Levi, who has no interest in women, cannot deny her beauty. Apparently, neither can Jean Kirstein, who is leaning now against her horse, with big, lustful eyes.

“Not soon enough,” she snaps, and her heels kick into the sides of her horse. The sudden movement knocks Jean off his feet, ass flat in the mud as he howls in terror. Farlan chuckles darkly, trotting past the man with a haughty expression.

“Guess she’s not convinced,” he says innocently, and Levi can’t help but snort as he climbs up onto his own nag. He glances down at Jean, who is pulling himself out of the mud, rubbing the back of his head.

“I wouldn’t bet on her, if I was you,” he advises, a grin pulling at the sides of his mouth. He kicks his own heels into his horse, following after Farlan and Isabel, who are making their way quickly out of town. 

They’d resolved that morning to travel to Black Creek, where there might be news of Lord Wald around which they could plan their next move. It is a reasonable idea, and they can deliver Rod Reiss’s money to the Springer’s along the way. The ride will take them two days, if they make good time. 

Levi tries to focus his thoughts on the journey ahead, but he cannot help but look back over his shoulder as Fargo fades into the distance, remembering his dream, and the handsome man who’d beat him so miserably at Five Card Stud.


End file.
